“What are your favorite books?”
I hear this question often.
And usually I panic. The I-hate-small-talks feeling overpowers me. I tremble a little and get lost. I wonder if I even have a list. Do I even read? I panic. I am a mess. I always am. I whisper titles that are too familiar. I whisper titles that are in the my kids’ required reading. I tell them everything and forget the important ones – the books that kept me afloat.
But what was there to say?
Only that there were tears. Only that Quietness and Emptiness fitted together like stacked spoons. Only that there was a snuffling in the hollows at the base of a lovely throat. Only that a hard honey-colored shoulder had a semicircle of teeth marks on it. Only that they held each other close, long after it was over. Only that what they shared that night was not happiness, but hideous grief.
Only that once again they broke the Love Laws. That lay down who should be loved. And how. And how much.
– Arundhati Roy, The God of Small Things